


Someone Else's Silk

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Collars, Consent Issues, Leashes, M/M, Public Nudity, Self-Lubrication, Sex Work, Soul Bond, vague PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 00:39:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whilst visiting a new world, Jim is given one night with a particularly interesting concubine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ~

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plyushka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plyushka/gifts).



> A/N: Xmas fill for plyushka (that ended up as more since this has been requested for a while and I have lots of reviews to say thank you for) [on tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/66814629392/musing). Thank you for all of your kind words and encouragement! ♥
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Mrennenimus II is a beautiful planet, composed mostly of pink grass and bright orange foliage. The Emperor’s home is set far up a mountainside, carved in and around with a great waterfall flowing through half of it. Shore leave is granted almost automatically. Even Jim’s initial landing party—Bones, Sulu, Hendorff, and himself—plan to stay the night. They’ve each been given rooms in the lavish palace, servants waiting on them hand and foot. 

In some regards, the treatment of these servants irks Jim—their all-encompassing and subservient nature remains him too much of slavery for comfort; completely not acceptable in the Federation. While the Prime Directive applies, even to an early-stages warp-capable species like this, it’s enough to prevent them from Federation entry. Jim’s explained this, but the Emperor, a tallish man with blue spots on his pale skin like a panda, insists they’re only interested in ‘business.’ The Federation only sent him here for frills—useless pleasantries and alliance formalities, not exactly Jim’s preferred mission, scenic planet or no. Their society seems greatly run on commerce, all about money and contracts, and the ceremonial banquet is spent mostly trying to convince Jim and the others of how beneficial trade negotiations would be. Jim’s polite and considerate, but he never makes any promises. The Emperor only speaks in grand generalities, details for ‘the real trade table,’ and without that, Jim rides on instinct; _something_ rubs him the wrong way.

Yet he enjoys his wine and odd-looking cake-soup hybrid, after, of course, letting Bones run a hasty tricorder over them. Perfectly sound. They taste fatty and sugary, and Jim indulges his sweet tooth while the Emperor shifts into more grand entertainment. 

The citizens of Mrennenimus II sit primarily on the floor, the long, wooden tables low and beautifully engraved. There are pillows everywhere about the large, circular room, the ceiling impossibly high overhead and marble-like pillars tracing the perimeter. The ‘doors’ are comprised of opaque hanging curtains, and a bout of barely-dressed men and women pour through the main one at the Emperor’s signal. They swerve into the center of the room and set right to work. They dance like they’ve been training for years, somewhere between ballet and burlesque. They’re of all different species, no humans, but some similar. Jim startles at this and turns to the Emperor, who smoothly informs him, “We have been in business with Orion traders already; many are pleased to come to us and our more open commerce. As you can see, we are very skilled in business. We would not be opposed to sharing some of even these wares with you.”

Jim’s never considered people ‘wares,’ but he’s on duty, so he bites his tongue and takes another sip of sticky-sweet wine. Dealing with Orions definitely sours them more for him, though again, the Emperor says no more details, like he cut Jim off earlier over every conversation of actual substance. Bones is getting steadily tipsier beside him, eyeing a beautiful Andorian woman that’s wearing only an array of necklaces and golden belts just barely thick enough to cover her nipples and crotch.

Jim enjoys the show on a cursory level. It’s impossible not to look at them—especially the Orion women—and the way they move is as intoxicating as their flawless bodies. They all wear similar, professional expression that give away nothing, and that’s always the turn off. Jim enjoys sex as much as the next man, probably more so, but he likes his partners to have personality, and the transaction aspect of it isn’t his cup of tea. In the interest of not being rude, he doesn’t say this. 

Music sets in belatedly—harp-like and soothing. The dancers finish one set and slip into another, and Jim’s attention finally dwindles, sliding about the hall instead. There are other servants circling, dressed just as loosely in skimpy robes. There are four other tables spaced evenly around the walls, Starfleet officers at some and local nobles at others. They’re all served equally, and Jim isn’t surprised when one local pulls a young serving girl into his lap, kissing her profusely. She surprises Jim by eyeing the cut of his robes, then returning it. Jim expects better of his officers though, and he makes a point of surveying them periodically. They’re all well trained, of course, and he trusts them, but they’re in a well of temptation and lubed up on veiled hospitality and alcohol—all humans make mistakes.

It’s in his random, subtle inspection that he spots one particular servant over in the corner—a Vulcan or a Romulan offering a tray of bright-looking pastries to a native. The native takes a few and runs his hand up the slave’s leg, dipping under the short, silky robes wrapped around him like some pornographically-edited kimono. 

The servant turns his head away, and Jim gets a better look: a Vulcan, he thinks. The Vulcan has the same flat expression all the other servants have, and he stands still while the nobleman fondles him and laughs something that Jim’s too far away to hear. Jim isn’t sure exactly why he’s watching it; it’s hardly the only example of inappropriate behaviour in the hall. But for whatever reason, his eyes are fixed there, and he watches the native push the Vulcan away with a final slap on the ass that the Vulcan doesn’t acknowledge. 

“Damn,” Bones grumbles next to him, following Jim’s gaze. “They’ve got a Vulcan. How’d they get him into this? That’s not right.”

Jim frowns. He completely agrees. 

But he knows as well as Bones does that they can’t do a thing about it. They don’t know the circumstances, and really, they couldn’t just cart off one servant and leave all the others—assuming even that one wants to leave. A few of them are from Federation species, but the charter doesn’t necessarily cover them; they could be from colonies that intentionally dissented or even be physically altered by Orions for mass appeal. They can take up one whatever planet they wish, even disreputable ones. He looks at Bones sideways, and Bones shakes his head and leans back against his pillow, dissolving the strangeness with another drink. 

Jim looks around again, but the Vulcan’s gone.

“Do you require anything?”

Jim nearly jumps, head swiveling around to look over his shoulder. The Vulcan’s behind him, holding the now nearly empty tray. Jim sucks in a breath. 

The Vulcan is tall, slim, lithe and beautiful. He can’t be much older than Jim. He has straight, glossy black hair with straight across bangs and sharp eyebrows, perfect bow lips and dark eyes that seem to look right through Jim. His smoky robes are held together by a sash around his waist, the top hanging open. His chest and legs are hairless, as though he’s being purposely displayed. 

He holds the tray out towards Jim, repeating, “Do you require anything?” It’s a flat question. Vulcans don’t usually carry the sensuality of some of the other species here, or so Jim would assume—they’re intellectually-focused, publicly-controlled beings. This is... an odd contradiction.

Jim manages a belated, “No, thanks.” He feels silly for staring. He takes one pastry off the tray just for an excuse to draw this out, and he doesn’t take his eyes off the Vulcan’s face. He wants to ask the Vulcan’s name.

He’s not even sure the servants here have names. 

He doesn’t want this man to be a the Mrennenimian version of a servant, just like he doesn’t want any of them to be, yet in some sick, horrible way in the pit of his stomach, he wants to see this man dance like the others. He wants to watch those hips sway and he wants to feel beneath the man’s robes, grope his cock and finger his ass. Jim’s turning a little pink. He’s been planetside too long.

The wine’s getting to him, and he feels like an asshole. The Vulcan seems to be staying in place longer than necessary, and Jim desperately wracks his brain for something to make this last. 

He comes up with nothing, and the Vulcan straightens back out, walking off.

Jim watches him go. 

On Jim’s other side, the Emperor makes a loud, strangled noise in the back of his throat that seems to be their version of clapping, and the dancers switch to another round. “More entertainment, Captain Kirk?” All six of the Emperor’s fingers gesture towards the middle of the room where ‘clothes’ are being shed from the stage. The naked dancers slowly roll into a new song, the promise of power and sex dripping off them in waves. 

The Vulcan is two tables down, letting two natives drunkenly paw at him. One of them tugs his ears, the other opening his shirt around his nipples. With a wince, Jim forces himself to look away.

“Have you ever seen a Trelidian beast tamed, Captain?” The Emperor grins like this is a treat, but Jim shakes his head; that’s quiet enough.

“I think this will suffice, Your Highness.”

The Empire laughs; a scratching sound. “Yes, yes, a good display.” He makes the strangled noise again, and one of the dancers struts closer to him. He moves awkwardly to the beat of the music, doing a poor job of matching her. 

Jim only has eyes for one alien, shouldn’t have eyes for any, and vainly tries to watch the naked dancers in the middle with professional curiosity.

An hour later, the Vulcan, having been pushed against a table and humped into it a few moments ago, fixes his robes without so much as a blink and leaves the hall. His tray is empty.

Jim guiltily waits for him to come back out, still half hoping he’ll dance.

* * *

By the time the banquet dies down, the stars are high in the tall windows. Jim’s particular landing party is escorted into the hall by the Emperor himself, probably because Jim’s the most likely to be able to set up trade negotiations. The Emperor thanks them all for their attendance and profusely wishes them a good night. Just as he finishes talking, a group of four servants, all wearing the standard short robes, approaches them. The Vulcan is among them, and Jim’s attention is automatically drawn away from the Emperor’s face.

“I assure you that even the ones from Orion have undergone Mrennenimian training; I am sure they will serve you well.” The Emperor tilts his body to the side: his version of a bow. 

Jim, forcing himself not to turn pink, leans just as much and says, “Thank you for your hospitality.”

A toothy smile, and the Emperor heads back to the banquet hall, probably to enjoy the remaining servants. The four with them split to each of the different party members. They’re all wearing collars with attached metal leashes: an Orion aesthetic. Bones is handed the end of one and then practically dragged off by the Andorian from earlier, who seems more interested in him than the reverse. He looks torn between uncomfortable and lecherous. Hendorff is grinning broadly and gone as soon as Jim nods at him. Sulu eyes his leash hesitantly, but ultimately takes it.

Jim’s the last one to go, the Vulcan standing in front of him, holding the end of a leash that Jim doesn’t want to take. 

He wants to take this man home with him, more desperately than he’d care to admit, but he doesn’t treat people like this. 

After a moment of awkward silence, the Vulcan asks quietly, voice deep and level, “Do I displease you in some way?”

Jim immediately says, “No.” Then he rolls his shoulders, looking sideways, and admits, “I’m just not used to...” He searches for the least insulting word possible and winds up with a vague, “this.”

The Vulcan doesn’t react. 

Jim’s eventually forced to sigh and take the leash. It feels cold and foreign in his hands, but so much like it shouldn’t be there. It be one thing if it were a disclosed kink with a lover, but there’s still so much about this pieced-together culture he doesn’t _understand_ , and he suspects the worst. He closes his fingers around it. The Vulcan looks at him, eyes suddenly murky. They’re sharper than they were earlier, than they were with everyone else around. 

The collar looks like it belongs on a pet though, and treating this man like a dog makes Jim’s stomach tighten. The Vulcan nods to the end of the hall, and Jim, taking the message, begins to walk there. The Vulcan keeps stride with him. The collar is tight but doesn’t look painful. Just humiliating, or would be on Jim. Jim wants to ask when the Vulcan came to this world and under what circumstances, but doesn’t. 

Jim wants to ask if he has a name and is told, “Spock.”

Jim memorizes it instantly.


	2. ~

Spock.

Jim wants to say it over and over once he learns it. Spock calls him ‘honoured guest’ like all the others, but there’s something in his expressionless face, in his hooded eyes that says he means to call Jim something else. Jim says his name, and Spock vacillates between that and a breathy, “Captain.”

The room Jim’s taken to is large, grand, circular and pillared, with a circular bed in the very center and floor pillows all around it, a few spots of furniture here and there. A lot of things are pinks and purples, the duvet a deep red. Jim walks first to the bed simply as it’s the focal point, and Spock follows, never stalling long enough for his leash to grow taut. He sits on the bed of his own accord and folds one leg over the other so that it slips between the part in his robe. It’s a pose and subtle technique that Jim’s more used to seeing from women in slit dresses, but that doesn’t make this any less appealing. 

The whole thing still makes Jim feel awkward though, and he drops his hands uselessly to the side. 

He’d forgotten the leash, and dropping his arm tightens it. Spock’s forced to lean forward, head tilted back but neck pulled forward, the collar straining against it. Spock doesn’t react otherwise: just looks up at Jim like it doesn’t matter to him if Jim tugs him around by it, pushes him lower, degrades him without a word. Jim hurriedly lets go of the leash’s end, and Spock slowly straightens back up, the chain sliding over his body to drape down his chest. 

“Can I take it off?” Jim asks, because he can’t see the buckle on it and doesn’t know what this world’s customs are. 

Spock says blankly, “If you wish.” A few seconds later, he adds, “You may take anything off me that you like.” Jim shivers, wondering if that goes deeper than clothes. 

He tries to stay focused on one thing at a time. When he slips his fingers around Spock’s neck, Spock tilts his chin up again—he looks regal and beautiful, befitting the splendor all around him but so much better than this. Vulcans don’t break under degradation, Jim supposes, just withdraw. He can’t imagine this is anything else. In some ways, it’s just as sad. 

He finds a small button on the back of the collar, rubs it experimentally with his index finger, and taps it. The collar tightens; Spock gasps. 

Jim swears, “Shit,” and taps it again, hoping it’ll release, but it goes even tighter. Spock’s mouth stays open, probably struggling for breath, but his face schools neutral. Jim doesn’t want to wonder if he’s used to being choked. Another frantic second of searching, and Jim finds a second button. He taps it, and this time the collar snaps open, invisible seams parting. Jim pulls it carefully from Spock’s neck, and Spock coughs once and sucks in breath, eyebrows knitting together in an oh so subtle wince. 

“I’m sorry,” Jim insists. “I didn’t— ...I’m sorry.”

Spock shakes his head, but doesn’t say what Jim knows—he’s free to choke Spock if he wants. That’s what that button must be for. He wouldn’t want to. He’s no one’s master, but if he were, he wouldn’t be that kind. He’s not even into that in experiments with an established lover. The leash is a heavy trail from the collar, and Jim drops them both to the floor, kicking them aside. 

Spock lifts a set of long fingers to gingerly touch his neck. He looks better without it. 

He’d look better without anything, but Jim doesn’t want to even get into that. He should know better than to pine for someone he can’t, shouldn’t have. He takes a seat next to Spock on the bed, the curve of it making him tilt slightly away, and he tries to think of how to say this. 

Spock’s hand lands on Jim’s leg, the other still on Spock’s neck, and he asks quietly, “How do you want me?”

With a certainty of freedom. The question went straight to his cock. Trying to ignore that, Jim licks his lips. A nervous habit. “Look, where I come from—” But he cuts off; Spock’s hand is gliding slowly towards his inner thigh. The index and middle finger are held together: a Vulcan gesture Jim’s seen before. Those fingers nearly reach his crotch, slow and pressing just enough to be felt, and Jim hurriedly drops a hand over it. Spock’s hand is very warm, soft, slightly calloused around the joints. It fits too easily beneath him. “Where I come from, we don’t... we don’t just take people. There’s more than that; a person has to know their partner is giving willingly.”

Spock hesitates. It looks like he’s considering something. His hand pulls away from Jim’s. 

He climbs off the bed, and he turns to stand in front of Jim, towering over him, their knees brushing, Jim somehow fixated on Spock’s face even though his body is so very lovely. 

Spock sinks slowly to his knees, just between Jim’s spread legs. He isn’t very far from Jim’s crotch. His hands are in his own lap. He has perfect posture, and he looks up at Jim so easily, as though he was born to do this. 

He breathes, “I give myself to you willingly.”

Jim has to bite his lip so he doesn’t moan. 

He doesn’t want to ask questions beyond that, even though he can still see the faint imprint of the collar. Spock takes no notice of the hesitation; he leans forward and into Jim’s crotch, nose nuzzling gently against it, lips parting. He mouths at Jim through the fabric, and Jim bulges horribly to meet that warm mouth. Spock’s fingers join his face, tracing the outline of Jim’s straining cock, cupping the curve of his balls. Spock presses his face in hard and inhales. Jim’s not sure he’s ever been so turned on in his whole life.

When Spock’s teeth find Jim’s zipper, he knows he has to stop. He grabs a chunk of Spock’s bangs without thinking, holding Spock still by it. Spock looks up at him, searching, and a second later, lets go of the zipper. 

He asks softly, “Have I done something wrong?”

Jim shakes his head. “No, just...”

“Then you do not find me attractive enough?”

“No! No...” Jim shakes his head, hand slipping away, tracing Spock’s cheekbone subconsciously as it goes. He makes a small, dry laughing sound. “I don’t know if I’ve seen anyone more attractive to me. You’re perfect.”

“But you will not have me?”

Jim licks his lips again. He half wishes Spock would tilt his head back down and snuggle into Jim’s crotch again, half wishes he would pull away completely. “This feels wrong.”

Spock lifts one eyebrow and reasons, “By human standards. We are not on Earth.” It’s a good point.

Jim almost laughs at the sheer _Vulcan_ in it; he didn’t think ‘slavery is wrong’ could be reasoned away. The more night progresses, the more that seems like what it is, though the Emperor spoke here and there of payment, of signed contracts, of agreement—in such small bursts and at his own time; he would hardly answer Jim’s questions and seemed to have no interest in discussing policies, just _business_. Jim knows he isn’t meant to judge the details of other cultures. “But you’re Vulcan.”

“Half.” Jim must look surprised. “Half human. It does not change the fact that I have consented to be property of this world: tonight, your property.”

Jim snorts, then regrets it. He has to gently push Spock away from him—he can’t concentrate like this. Thankfully, Spock takes the hint and rises to his feet, still between Jim’s, looking down at Jim. His hands slip to Jim’s shoulders, and it’s inexplicably reassuring in a way Jim couldn’t explain. He tries to reason, “With you, I’m not interested in a one night stand.” And then he’s left to wonder if the Universal Translator could pick that up; Spock’s speaking in Federation Standard, but ‘one night stand’ is hardly a Vulcan phase. Spock seems more Vulcan than human. “...And I don’t want property, either, in _any_ capacity. That’s not... my style.” But he wishes he’d left that off. Spock’s eyes cloud over.

He looks aside for the first time, head slightly tilted down. It’s subtle, but Jim recognizes the dejection. 

Jim corrects, “Look I don’t.... It’s not that you’re not enough. I just... look, I don’t know how much of Earth you know, but where I come from, no one is property; a world leader can’t just send four others off to four strangers and that be that.” He makes another hollow laugh. “Spock, trust me, I’d _love_ to have you, I really would. But I can’t like this. I just... I can’t. I don’t understand how this works, how much you got a say in, when you can leave...”

Jim trails off, and Spock doesn’t fill it in or answer the existing questions. Either he’s not that vocal, or he genuinely doesn’t understand why it matters. A few seconds of silence pass. Jim doesn’t know how the information’s processing. He wants to say more, wants to explain better, but it’s hard and he doesn’t have the words. He’s only working on half brainpower; the rest is wasted yearning. Finally, Spock looks back at him, eyebrows particularly drawn together: determined. 

He slips easily into Jim’s waist, straddling Jim’s lap. Jim loses his breath instantly; Spock’s robes are parted around him, he can’t see anything, but another few centimeters and he would. He can _feel_ Spock against him. Spock’s hands tighten on Jim’s shoulders, and Jim’s hands fly to Spock’s waist on instinct. Spock’s hips begin to rock, grinding slowly into Jim’s, and Jim’s lost in a dizzy heaven. 

“I am yours for the night,” Spock says, so soft and warm at Jim’s ear, head tucking next to Jim’s so that Jim can tilt and feel his smooth skin. “You say that I am suitable, that you want me. This was always a predicted outcome. It is only logical that you enjoy me. I will do whatever you like.”

Jim grits his teeth. “You’re not listening. This isn’t about me; I’m taking issue with what _you_ would like. I don’t get the terms here. I stared at you: I get you—that can’t be all there is.”

“I would like _you_ , to take me, Jim,” Spock insists, and he sounds so sincere that Jim almost folds. Spock kisses his ear, kisses his cheek. Spock’s hips are still grinding, and Jim’s still holding them, the fabric of his robes so thin. Spock kisses his way around, hits the side of Jim’s mouth, and it takes everything Jim has to look away before Spock can properly kiss his lips. 

He can feel Spock’s forehead lean against his. He thinks Spock might be frustrated in a Vulcan way. Jim is too. Jim’s eyes close. Spock’s swaying hips are going to make him come in his pants. He has to stop this. He tightens his grip suddenly and says in his best commanding tone, all captain, “Stop.” Spock’s goes still, and Jim leans back to look at him properly and ask, near desperate, “What do I have to do to make you stop?”

“Take me to bed.”

Jim sighs. 

Jim pushes him off. Spock slides easily back to his feet, and Jim walks around the bed, nodding to the other side. Round pillows rest where the blankets stop, three thin ones stacked, ornately patterned. Jim’s voice is tight, but he manages to say without shaking, “We can sleep in the same bed, if only to not disappoint the Emperor, but... stay on your side, okay?”

Spock’s expression is unreadable. 

Jim repeats, “Okay?” He doesn’t say it, but the ‘please’ is evident in his tone. 

Spock pulls the sash from his robes. He drops it to the floor, and the fabric slides open. Jim wants to look away but can’t. He’s almost starting to wonder if Spock came to this place _to_ be used by strangers, but that doesn’t reconcile with the Vulcan way, and Jim can’t get past that. All of Spock’s smooth chest is exposed, right down to the smattering of dark hair above a glorious cock, long and solid, that Jim’s eyes are immediately drawn to. His throat is dry. Spock slips the robe from his shoulders and stands, perfectly naked, perfectly shaped, all bared for Jim to see. He waits a few seconds, letting Jim soak it in. 

Then he lifts the edge of the blankets and slips beneath them, lying down on the plush mattress. He looks at the ceiling and says an almost cold, “Good night, Jim.”

Jim, unable to believe it’s finally worked—and maybe a little disappointed, although he would’ve preferred Spock to be more vocal and just explain all the terms—mutters, “Good night, Spock.”

He takes off his gold tunic and kicks off his shoes, but leaves on his black undershirt and pants. Spock doesn’t watch him change. He looks around for a light to turn off, but there doesn’t seem to be one. When he slips beneath the covers, Spock says, “Darkness.”

And they’re plunged into it.

Jim rolls onto his side, facing away from Spock, trying not to think about how the bed dips down behind him. The odd shape of the mattress seems to make his body want to roll to the middle. He stays curled against his side, anyway. He tries to sleep, even with his cock hard and his head spinning, and he tries ot to notice that without his vision, it’s easier to smell _Spock_ behind him, raw and a little musky. It’s been a long time since Jim’s slept overnight with another man. He’s never slept with a Vulcan. He never even knew he wanted to.

He can feel Spock’s presence right up until the moment he falls asleep, and there isn’t a second where he thinks of anything else.

* * *

Jim has only wet dreams, filled with a beautiful lover, black hair and black eyes, dancing in his lap. He knows exactly who it is, but there is no need for names in his dream; he knows this person just as his _other_ , that other piece of his whole. 

He wakes from it with a languid moan, stretching out his toes and rolling back his shoulders. His eyes blink open a few times, falling half-lidded after, and there’s nothing but darkness around him. He almost asks the computer for the lights to go on before he remembers that he’s not on the Enterprise, and it doesn’t work that way here. 

He’s in a strange bed on a stranger world, with something warm and strong fitted all along his back. He can feel another man’s thighs against the back of his legs, an arm draped over his waist, another under his head like a pillow. The gentle breath along the back of his neck is shallow and even. Spock. He can feel Spock’s heartbeat. 

His own tightens; he doesn’t want to move. 

Spock’s spooning him. They fit together so well, even through all their jagged angles and hard muscles and long limbs. Jim’s cock is stiff from his dream, stiffer at being in the arms of a man like Spock. He should push away—at least push Spock’s arm off him—but instead he’s still and comfortable. 

Spock’s naked. He can feel a thick Vulcan cock pressed against the crease of his ass, and when he adjusts slightly, he rubs against it. It twitches in response, but otherwise, Spock doesn’t react. Jim wonders if he’s asleep. 

Jim slides his own hand under the blanket to find Spock’s, and he lightly traces Spock’s knuckles to see if they’ll move. They don’t. 

Jim whispers, “Spock?” And Spock says nothing. His breath doesn’t even pause. He must be asleep. 

Jim fantasizes sleepily of rolling over and humping Spock’s unconscious body, but that’d be even worse morally. If he just shifted Spock’s arm lower, he could make Spock’s hand inadvertently brush his cock, and maybe he could wrap it around himself and thrust into it...

Or he could just roll over and fuck Spock into the mattress, and the mere thought makes him keen, squirming again. He tries to clench the cheeks of his ass around Spock’s dick through his pants, but it slips away. Jim rubs shamelessly into it again, hating himself but loving this. 

Spock grunts finally, and Jim somehow knows that he’s coming to be awake—his breath hesitates, arm shifting. The arm beneath Jim’s head moves and curls, hand falling into Jim’s hair and threading through it. Jim leans into the touch, wanting so much to beg. 

“ _Jim_.” It’s a purr, so small and sensual that Jim groans, hips rocking back. How is he supposed to resist?

Spock kisses the back of his neck, and all Jim can do is _want_. He’s not awake enough to fight. He wishes he weren’t wearing so many clothes. It’s stifling beneath all the blankets. 

Spock nibbles at the rounded shell of Jim’s ear, and Jim grits his teeth, forcing himself to hiss, “Why are you trying so hard?”

“Because you are my mate.”

Jim freezes instantly. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but not... not _that._

Spock’s nuzzling into him, and Jim shifts to roll around in Spock’s grasp, Spock’s arm lifting up to let him. Jim sidles as close as he can, was already so close, one leg hooking over Spock’s because there’s nowhere else for it to go. He can’t see Spock through the darkness, exactly, but he can see the faint outline of contours, thinks he might be able to see the glint of Spock’s eyes. He can feel Spock’s breath now over his lips. “Your...”

“I know you are,” Spock insists, and it’s so quiet that Jim doesn’t know how he hears it. Spock’s arm slips around Jim’s body, falls over where Jim’s heart is, presses in, warm. There isn’t any more room between their bodies for Jim to hold it back. If Spock were anything but Vulcan, Jim would think this a joke. A poor one.

But Vulcans don’t joke, and Spock tilts his head, slipping closer at the same time, lips brushing Jim’s and parting. Jim’s too stunned to move away, but his mouth opens. This should be ridiculous. He didn’t think Vulcans were like that—soul mate business and things like that, though he’s heard that they’re bonded very young through something stronger than words. Jim would’ve still been chasing girls across the playground when Spock should’ve been promised to someone else. The hand over Jim’s heart traces back over Jim’s side, beneath his arm, tightening and holding him in. 

Jim gasps enough for Spock’s tongue to slip into his mouth, and he moans into pushing his back. He’s not sure if he’s trying to fight Spock’s tongue away or suck it in further. They tangle in the middle, lips moist and soft with the effort, and Spock’s mouth tastes a little stale and a little like caffeine. Jim wonders what he’s like—probably near-morning breath: not that great. Spock doesn’t complain. Spock kisses him like Jim’s made of nothing but cake. Not that a Vulcan would like that sort of thing...

Jim’s a mess, and his hips rut into Spock’s, his hand hesitantly lifting to Spock’s side. The blankets are all around them, up to their shoulders, rustling whenever they move: a special cocoon, just for them. Spock pulls back just enough for them to slide apart, and he waits, as though for Jim to say no again. 

Jim... can’t. 

He licks his lips, tasting Spock on them. His _mate_. Does that trump possibly-slavery? They barely even know each other. Jim doesn’t know the depth of Spock’s role, and apparently no one will tell him. Humans don’t mate. Jim... Jim could. 

Perhaps because Jim hasn’t stopped him, Spock’s fingers fall to Jim’s waistband, Jim’s head slipping back to a pillow. It’s softer, but he preferred Spock’s arm. He prefers... Spock. To anyone he’s ever had. And he hasn’t even _had_ Spock yet.

He wants to. He desperately wants to. The last time he wanted something this bad, it was the Enterprise itself. If he had Spock on the Enterprise... he closes his eyes, and he sees the bridge from his captain’s chair, Spock strolling towards him... maybe in gold—no: blue for science; more Vulcan... Jim shivers. He opens his eyes, and he thinks he can maybe see Spock through the darkness. Spock pulls Jim’s pants down his hips a fraction of a centimeter. 

Spock’s hips roll into his, and Jim’s hands fall over Spock’s, helping pull them down. There shouldn’t be anything between them. He _knows_ there shouldn’t be, even if he can’t explain it. He pushes them right off, down his legs, struggles out of them, his boxers going with them, and he pulls them out of the blankets. He sleeps naked all the time, and Spock is right now, so it doesn’t feel as fast or odd as it maybe should. He takes his shirt off too—it was boiling anyway, and he doesn’t want to throw the blankets away. His skin can breathe better now. Spock touches his chest. Spock’s bare skin on his is more than he can take. 

He surges right back up to Spock, his leg looping over Spock’s thigh: leverage to pull himself closer. He rocks into Spock and he lets Spock claim his mouth again, the kiss that follows erasing any doubts. Or maybe they’re just covered up. Maybe he’s too hard to think straight. He feels drunk on this, heady with Spock’s smell and touch and taste. He can hear Spock’s breathing when they stop, something small in his peripherals. Spock’s hands stroke his sides, and Spock mumbles, rubbing his nose into Jim’s like he can’t take being in separate bodies, “Jim. _Jim,_ I want you.” Jim nods: yes, yes; he wants Spock too. Spock’s dick is rubbing against his stomach—it finds his own cock and they slide against each other, chafing, wonderful, dry skin sensitive in every part. Spock bites Jim’s chin and hisses, “Want you.”

Jim’s hips are moving on their own. He and Spock are rocking together, rolling to some steady rhythm in both their heads, and it takes Jim a few needy seconds to realize that Spock’s dick isn’t as dry as it should be. The head is slick, growing wet, and something drips down Jim’s shaft, warm and making him shiver. Precum? Vulcans must shed a lot of it. Jim mumbles dazedly, “You’re coming?” 

Spock shakes his head; Jim can feel it against him. “Natural lube. My body thinks it can have you...”

Spock’s barely finished talking when Jim says without thinking, “It can.” He can’t say no, not like this. Not with how good it feels, how much better it could be. Spock’s drawing him in like some sort of conscious magnet, and he’s stuck forever. He can feel Spock’s hesitation, even as Spock kisses him again, as Jim kisses back with everything he has. 

Spock rolls them over mid-kiss, Jim’s mouth too full to protest. Spock lands on top of him, legs parting around him, straddling his hips, lifting the blankets up and looming over every part of Jim’s body. Spock keeps kissing him, won’t let him stop it. Jim’s hands climb to Spock’s chest, to his shoulders, and they lightly shove him up. 

Spock looks down at him, on all fours, gorgeous even in the lack of light, radiating heat and everything Jim ever wanted. A drop of the lube pouring from Spock’s dick hits Jim’s stomach. 

He supposes that if Spock takes the lead, and not the other way around, it isn’t so bad. It’s an illusion and doesn’t make any sense, but he tries to justify it that way. Spock leans closer, his hands running down Jim’s arms, lightly pulling them away and guiding them back to the mattress. Spock finds Jim’s wrists, holds them down, slides past Jim’s palms and threads all their fingers together, Jim closing them tighter than he means to. Spock drops his forehead to Jim’s. His bangs brush Jim’s light hair away. It’s a place Jim’s growing use to connecting; he feels like he’s gotten more of Spock’s head than the simple touch should allow. 

“You will let me take you?” Spock whispers. It sounds almost skeptical, disbelieving. Jim nods his head and knows that Spock can feel it. His thighs are nearly trembling between Spock’s. More lube is dripping onto him. It still feels like precum. He wants more of it and wants the real thing. He thinks of Spock’s pretty mouth so close to his own crotch earlier, and in this moment, high on lust as he is, he can’t imagine why he said no. Spock would look so good full of his cock...

Spock would look good on the Enterprise, fit perfectly into Jim’s life. Jim’s sure of it. He doesn’t know how, but he is. He thinks they could be more than this, and he doesn’t want to think out the consequences and all the reasons they can’t. 

Spock isn’t moving, so Jim whines, arching up into Spock’s warm body, “ _Take me._ ”

Spock bites at Jim’s jaw; Jim groans and leans his head closer. One of Spock’s hands leaves his, and Spock’s body shifts a little lower. Spock’s hips come down. Something spongy and wet slides down through Jim’s cheeks, and he gasps when it presses into just the right spot, finding his hole. Spock swirls it around and pushes it closer, drenching Jim’s ass in the sticky liquid Spock’s secreting. Then something smaller and harder is rubbing it in: one finger. Jim growls in frustration; he doesn’t want to wait to be prepared. But he knows he has to. He saw, felt how big Spock is. Jim arches up again—if his own cock brushes against Spock’s stomach, it’ll be easier to wait. Or maybe it’ll be worse; he’ll hump himself out against Spock’s pliant body. Spock hovers just out of reach, fingering Jim gently. 

The blunt fingertip pops inside, and Jim grunts. It doesn’t feel as strange as usual. It’s wet and agile, carefully pushing deeper, bit-by-bit, molding to the whims of Jim’s walls. It fights his convulsions and presses all the sides of his channel, swirling around and trying to ease it open. Another finger joins the first too easily, and together, they scissor him apart. Jim uses his free hand to wrap around Spock’s shoulders and hold them down, leaving the other tight in Spock’s. Spock’s thumb lightly strokes his, and the shiver it causes reverberates through every millimeter of Jim’s body. He’s lost in all the subtleties and the greater good. Every little bit of him feels heavy and content. 

Spock’s fingers slip out of him, and Jim realizes with a start that he’s been stretched. It was so easy he lost it. Then the head of Spock’s dick is replacing them, and Jim sucks in a breath of anticipation, wishing he could see Spock’s eyes better. 

He shuts his eyes and sees them there. Spock asks him, “Ready?”

Jim nods. He’s never been more ready for anything.

He’s sunk into in a slow burn that makes him gasp and writhe the moment he’s breached. It isn’t like any other cock he’s ever had. It’s thick and scorching hot, solid and veined enough for him to feel it, and he can feel the green blood pulsing through too. It’s like he can feel it all pulsing, alive and intense inside him. It belongs inside him. He doesn’t know how, but he knows that. It pushes deeper and deeper so smoothly: a perfect ride: a sword fitting into its sheath. Maybe Jim’s ass is molding to fit. He clutches Spock’s shoulders tighter, and Spock mutters, “ _Jim_.” Mates indeed...

“ _Spock_.” Jim wants to say it over and over again; how has he ever lived without this? So, so good. All those others he’s been chasing, aliens for that exotic fill, something he could be captain of in every last part of him. His legs wrap slowly around Spock’s hips, angle shifting Spock deeper and deeper. It seems to take Spock forever to get fully inside, and as soon as it’s far as it can go, Jim knows. Jim clenches around it and enjoys the way it throbs. He’s whole. 

Spock pauses above him, breathing heavier. Maybe his tight control is slipping. He leans down, held up on one elbow, the fingers of that hand brushing through Jim’s hair, starting to get sweat-slicked. Jim moans, the hint of a smirk on his lips, “Everything you thought it would be?”

Spock makes a growling noise in the back of his throat that catches Jim off guard. The growl turns into a feral, “ _Mine._ ” Somehow, all their roles have changed. 

Jim doesn’t care. In this moment, they’re both each other’s. He doesn’t want to be anyone else’s. He bucks up into Spock, grunting at the slide of cock inside him, “Move.” Another breath. “Please.”

Spock obliges. He slips out, just as slow as he went in, and Jim’s all one big moan. His hand leaves Spock’s to wrap around his neck so both are holding him down, and Spock cradles him back. Spock gets almost all the way out, and Jim feels empty, and Jim croons, and Spock slides back in at a torturous rate; Jim’s eyes flutter, body tightening. He’s filled up again, near bursting. 

He’s taken out of, entered quicker, right against that spot that makes him see stars. He goes through withdrawals when Spock leaves him. He’s giddy when Spock’s back in. Each thrust comes sooner than the last, harder and faster, until he’s being rut into at a steady pace. His legs and arms are tight around Spock’s body, and Spock’s all over him, holding him back and kissing him all over, everywhere they can reach. The blankets are draped over them, and when the top layer starts to slip, Jim grabs the edge, holding it down. Spock’s cheeks grow flushed, tinged a little green. Jim’s sweating. Spock’s not far behind. He’s not sure which is louder, the slapping skin-on-skin or his ragged breath or the way Spock pants next to his ear. Spock tries to kiss his cheek, and Jim turns into it. 

Jim holds Spock’s mouth captive, their tongues back together. The way it should be. Spock hits the right spot every time. Spock’s exactly where he should be. Jim’s cock is trapped between them, but that’s just right—he can’t fathom why he wouldn’t allow this before. His head is just one big fog of _pleasure_ , and all he can think of is _Spock_ and how _right_ this feels. They make out like teenagers, until Jim needs more air, and after a second of that, they’re at it again. Jim takes everything he can. 

One of Spock’s hands slips between them. It drops more of Spock’s weight down; Jim happily takes it. Long fingers wrap around his cock, and he croons as Spock’s skilled digits start to stroke him, up and down to the beat of their thrusts. Spock’s hand seems to squeeze in time with the pulsing of his cock, and Jim feels like Spock’s heartbeat’s being transferred, like they’re lining up. There’s so much _emotion_ in Spock’s strokes, in his thrusts, in the way he kisses Jim. Jim’s matching it.

He doesn’t know how he’s lasting so long. He wants to last forever. He’s riding out everything he can. He’s being taken over and over, and it builds in him, coils so tight that he doesn’t think he’ll ever come down. Spock’s too good. He pulls back from Jim’s lips, and Jim tries to chase him, but Spock leans away, pushing Jim back down and still going, hips never stopping. Their foreheads are together again, eyes peering through the dark. Jim can feel Spock’s breathing; it’s almost enough. 

Spock pauses to grind in, deep inside Jim, for the length of three thrusts, and Jim gasps, arching and losing air. He stiffens in Spock’s hand; Spock squeezes, thumb rising to circle the tip, and Jim’s pouring out a second later, moaning and spilling everything. He can feel it hit his own chest, hit Spock’s, trapped between them and unable to climb higher, and it oozes out over Spock’s nimble fingers. Jim’s whole body trembles with his release, pulling Spock with him. He can feel Spock finish inside him. A rush of hot cum shoots out against his insides, filling every nook and cranny, and his greedy ass spasms around it to try and squeeze out more. He knows that Spock’s mouth is open like his, barely managing this, but he’s not lucid enough to kiss. He’s a wondrous wreck, giving and taking everything he has.

Even when they’re done, his head doesn’t come down. It stays fuzzy and happy, satiated and high. Spock stays atop him, not collapsing, but not held up either. 

Spock nuzzles into the side of his face, both of them panting hard, and Jim loosely clings to his back and arms. Reality won’t quite sink in. 

When Spock does pull out, Jim whines over it, feeling empty immediately, open too wide and leaking. Spock hushes him and lies beside him, and they twist and snuggle, buried in each other’s arms. In this moment, Jim knows exactly what Spock means; mates or whatever the word is, it feels beyond. 

Dizzy and whole, it doesn’t take long for Jim to pass out, sure that Spock will follow.


	3. ~

The first minute of Jim’s morning is spent groggily coming to.

The second minute is spent immediately spiraling into guilt. 

The third minute is mostly a mash of feeling sticky and gross and warm and like he still wants more, and he glances sideways; Spock’s curled up on the far end, back to him. 

Even his back is good-looking. Or maybe Jim’s just too deeply under his spell. His dark hair is slightly matted, still shiny, shifted on the pillow. The light is dim, filtered in through curtains over tall windows. Jim wonders if he should leave. 

He can’t. He shifts closer, sliding his hand along the mattress, pausing at Spock’s skin and sliding over Spock’s spine. He trails it up to Spock’s neck, strokes that softly, and finds himself tracing Spock’s ear. Spock doesn’t move. Jim remembers everything, remembers being called Spock’s _mate_.

He’s not sure if he can believe it, and he’s not sure if he can call this anything else. He wants to wrap his arms around Spock and drift back to sleep. 

Spock’s breath pauses. He shifts a few millimeters and glances over his shoulder. 

Jim mumbles without thinking, “You’re beautiful.” Spock’s eyes stay neutral, lips in a straight line. “...I wish you really wanted me.”

“But bought sex is not love,” Spock says. It sounds like he’s saying it for Jim: finishing Jim’s thought. Jim looks away. It’s not that that’s impossible, but... it feels that way to Jim. It must apply to Spock. 

Spock rolls slowly over, lifting up the blankets as he goes, letting them fall back to his shoulders. 

There’re a few quiet minutes of just them, lying on their sides, looking at one another, not saying anything and not really needing to. Jim looks at this every which way he can, and he can’t see any way to leave without _longing_ after Spock for the rest of his life.

He isn’t a slave trader, doesn’t buy people, but he still finds himself asking sadly, voice barely a whisper, “If I could buy your freedom, would you come back on my ship with me?”

Spock’s eyebrows knit together, and he shakes his head. “‘Freedom’ is not a condition of my contract.”

“If I could see that—”

“It would be illogical,” Spock tells him too firmly. “You may return here anytime you wish, and you may have me. I am not for any one man.”

Jim finds himself half-laughing sadly. “Not even your mate?”

Spock’s fingers shift beneath the covers, finding Jim’s chest. Jim doesn’t know where the Vulcan heart is, but he wants to hold it too. “I will always be yours, that way. Vulcans have that... connection. Only yours. I only meant that I cannot be kept from you.”

“But you can be shared with others.” It doesn’t sound like something he should say. He tries again, “I want to ask the Emperor about letting you go.”

“The Emperor does not know me any more than a sun knows a single asteroid.” His hand presses tighter against Jim, and Jim holds it gingerly.

“I just want what you want.”

Spock says simply, “You.” It almost comes across that he doesn’t want the freedom to move about, doesn’t care which planet he’s pulled to. He’d rather wait here for Jim to come another day. That isn’t how this works. Jim doesn’t bother explaining that he can’t buy and keep a civilian; Spock knows. 

Spock seems to wait for more, maybe Jim to move and kiss him, shift together so they can tangle around again, be one. Jim knows he wants that. Jim wants it too, and he strokes the back of Spock’s hand idly while he waits, breathing in the crisp morning air. 

Spock shifts a centimeter forward, and Jim turns his head away, mumbling, “I can’t kiss you again.” Because if he does, he’ll never let go.

Spock pulls away easier than Jim thought. He hides his rejection well, but Jim can see it in him, in all the little subtleties. Spock slips out the edge of the bed and doesn’t get his robe. He tilts his head like the bowing of this place and says, “Will you have your meal or bathe first, Captain?” Jim’s mouth goes dry.

He needs a bath. If he does it down here, as opposed to on his ship, Spock will probably slip in. Spock, naked and wet. Jim pictures it and bites the inside of his mouth to stifle a moan. He can’t have that. He’d run away with Spock. Fuck Spock so hard against the rim.... He forces his eyes open and grunts, “Breakfast.”

While Spock turns and heads stiffly for the door, Jim slips out his side of bed and finds his clothes, rumbled in a heap on the floor. He pulls on his underwear, pants, and undershirt, but doesn’t bother with the gold tunic or his shoes, not just yet. He’s not sure when he’ll be summoned. Might as well be comfortable until then. He sits on the edge of the bed, and Spock returns fairly fast. 

He’s still naked, still drawing Jim’s eyes, but he’d probably do that in anything. He’s carrying a tray of differently shaped and coloured pastries and a glass of pink liquid. He places it on Jim’s lap and kneels at Jim’s feet. 

Jim holds the tray and looks down at him, feeling odd and lucky. 

“Where’s your breakfast?”

“You may feed me, if you wish.” Jim lifts his eyebrows. That’s not supposed to be optional. Spock just gets leftovers? Spock adds, “I will feed you, if you wish.” Jim shakes his head.

He holds out the tray and says, “Just take one.” But Spock, of course, doesn’t. 

For a servant, he’s very stubborn. 

With a sigh, Jim tries the first pastry. It’s sticky-sweet, like a lot of things on this world, but not bad. It feels sort of like a creampuff but tastes fruitier. He tries another. Spock stays knelt in front of him and watches him, and having a kneeling Spock at his feet is really making Jim glad for the tray; at least it covers up his growing tent. He knows if he moved the tray, Spock would take care of it for him. 

He tells himself he needs this tray and fights the urge to push it aside. 

On the third pastry, he can’t take it, and he holds it out to Spock, expecting Spock to take it from his hand. Instead, Spock opens his mouth, eyes sliding halfway shut as his head tilts back. Jim pushes it down onto his waiting tongue, trying not to blush too hard. Spock’s lips close around Jim’s finger. Jim pulls it out with a wet pop, and he watches the way Spock’s adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. 

No one should be that gorgeous. Spock looks so plain, like this is normal, like this is nothing, and Jim’s just trying to hold on. ...He’d be a great help in a crisis on board. Unshakeable calm is a good officer trait. Jim almost laughs from thinking it. 

Jims sighs and falls abruptly back, the tray still carefully balanced over his lap and his back hitting the mattress. He’s going to have a hell of a time leaving this place. 

Spock climbs up beside him and picks up a pastry, holding it to his mouth. Jim opens as obediently as Spock did. 

He eats the pastry from Spock’s fingers and lets Spock feed him two more, then feeds Spock the rest. When they share the drink, he tries not to think that it’s an indirect kiss, like some lovesick teenager. 

He fails.

* * *

Jim runs into Sulu in a hallway, looking relaxed and happy and dressed in a loose robe, and he grins when they chat about this planet. It’s only for a few minutes before the Emperor shows up, and he gestures for Jim to walk with him. Jim falls into stride, and they trail down an open hallway that looks out over the mountain, the view below breathtaking. 

He understands vaguely why someone might not want to leave this world. He prefers space to anything, but this is so picturesque. They can see a few other hallways to either side and a courtyard below them, carved into the rock and grown over with grass. Two noblemen sit on pillows there while servants wait on them, a dancer coming out to sit in one nobleman’s lap. The Emperor stops here, looking over the railing and asking, “How was your night, Captain?”

“Excellent.” But confusing. Jim doesn’t say it. He wishes he’d been sent here to _investigate_ rather than exchange superficial pleasantries. The Emperor nods indulgently, gaze on the garden. Jim watches too.

Another servant comes out, one with black hair and pointed ears. Jim frowns. He knew Spock had other duties. And Spock is for no one man. 

Spock walks to the free nobleman’s side, and he’s pulled into the man’s lap. It’s nothing like how he was with Jim. He doesn’t talk, barely moves, seems practically robotic. He’s a tool to be played with that show neither pleasure nor displeasure. The man runs long fingers all over his body and parts his robes, and Spock looks simply forward while he’s touched. 

Jim doesn’t have the best angle. He can’t see everything. But he feels like Spock’s being _used_ , and it makes his blood boil more than he can say. His fingers tighten in the railing. He’s angry and jealous, and he scolds himself for ever thinking this world was a pretty one. 

“See something wrong, Captain?” the Emperor asks smoothly, a twinge of knowledge in his voice. When Jim looks over, he’s smiling. 

Jim opens his mouth, licks his lips, and closes it again. It takes him a second to grunt out, against his professional judgment, “It’s hard to see other men have the one you lent me.”

The Emperor claps his hands. Jim’s attention is drawn to it; the Emperor is smiling wide. “Ah, yes; I knew you were a good match. If you want him, you know I am not an unreasonable man. I could be convinced to part with him, for a fee, of course...” A heavy price, Jim’s sure. He has to school his features out of a glare. If this was some ploy to open trade negotiations with the Federation, it was a cruel one. Knowing this world, it probably was. When Jim doesn’t answer, the Emperor insists, “At least consider it, Captain. You know how much we would value a precedent of deals with your organization. Surely the delights I’ve offered you would be worth the price?”

More than worth it. When Jim thinks of last night, he’d pay anything. 

He knows that’s wrong too, and the price of Spock would come with a scummy race dealing with his Federation. 

The price of a clean Federation is Spock, and Jim’s not sure he can do that, either. 

In the end, it’s not a hard decision. He remembers the feeling of Spock’s fingers too well. He remembers the taste of Spock’s mouth, the smell of Spock’s body, the sound of Spock’s moans. He can see Spock now, and Spock finally looks up, so very far below. Their eyes connect.

Another man is pulling Spock’s robes from his shoulders. He lets himself be stripped. Jim’s heart constricts. Somehow, he’s sure the Vulcan bond was no ploy. Maybe Spock was in on it. Maybe Spock came to this world to excel in their dealings, use his intellect for commerce, and his body was the ultimate tool for that. But Jim doubts it and is sure their connection was _real_.

His eyes don’t waver, and he mutters, “Name your price.”


	4. ~

Jim never really solved anything. Didn’t figure anything out. It’s probably just as well; the Federation wanted that. He has no idea what he’ll put in his official report. He expects a call from an admiral as soon as the transmission gets through, and he still has no idea what he’ll say. It can’t be fixed now; even if the Federation is displeased with his bargain, they’d never make him send a person back if that person didn’t want to go. He still has to ask why Spock was there in the first place, but he saw Spock’s neutrality to it all and knows he can offer better, doubts Spock would go back. All Jim has to rest on is that he’s broken the rules before, more times than he can count, and he’ll probably do it again someday, and they must all know that. This, like all those times, worked out for the best. Perhaps given the circumstances, they’ll consider this one of the less disastrous mistakes. 

Mistake seems like a harsh word. Jim steps through the glass doors of the bridge, slipping right into the chaos—everyone’s in motion around him, ready to set sail. He catches Sulu on the way to the helm and asks, “Do you think you could take the first shift in the chair?” 

Sulu glances at it, grinning. He comes naturally to command. “I thought that might happen.”

Jim lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Your package came,” Sulu says, and he nods back towards the doors. “I had it sent to your quarters.”

Jim’s not sure if he should grin or scowl. Maybe the whole bridge saw it. He has no idea what the wrapping will be like. He pats Sulu’s arm, grateful for the discretion if not the teasing wording. “Good. I’ll relieve you at beta shift.”

“I slept on the planet. You can take longer.”

Jim smiles briefly: his way of saying maybe. 

He feels like he hasn’t slept in days. It wasn’t that big in the end. He was careful. He didn’t trade any technology more advanced than Mrennenimus II, didn’t offer any weapons or anything remotely weapon-like. In the end, all they got is old hull parts and some exotic food. Nothing much, but Jim got the distinct impression that the trade itself was what the Emperor was after. He ripped up Spock’s contract without letting Jim read it, Spock sitting primly and wordlessly beside him, and Jim declined to write a new one.

And now what’s done is done, and he’ll have to battle the resulting wealth of problems as they come. 

The first one is in his quarters, and he does a general sweep of the bridge before heading off, checks all systems, greets faces he hasn’t seen in a week. Everyone’s in high spirits; shore leave was appreciated. None of them seemed to notice the problem he had, but then, it’s never been their task to sniff out and vanquish government wrong-doing. Officially, it’s not Jim’s either, but that doesn’t often stop him.

Jim walks a little too fast to his quarters. He’s nervous at everything he’s done, but his adrenaline is greater than that. He knows what’s waiting for him, and, as much as he shouldn’t, he _wants_ this. He trots faster, and the doors part automatically for him. 

A quick peripheral sweep of his quarters, and he marches straight to his bedroom. His ‘package’ is on the bed, fully tied up in various ribbons with an ugly sort of Mrennenimus-style bow on the small of his back.

Otherwise, Spock is entirely naked, head to foot. He’s hogtied, lying on his stomach, his wrists and ankles tied together behind him, arched in a crude semi-circle that would probably be uncomfortable on a human body. The ribbon cuts through his mouth, effectively gagging him. Jim’s footsteps stop immediately, even though he hasn’t reached the bed yet. He loses his breath for a few seconds. He’ll never, ever, put Spock through this again. That means that this is his one chance to see Spock fully tied up for him, and he guiltily commits the image to memory. Spock glances at him, so calm. 

Jim rushes over. There’s no hesitation; he pulls the bow loose and immediately starts to untie the ribbon, careful as he unwraps it, aware that it’s almost tight enough to bruise. He’s gentle but quick. When he gets to Spock’s mouth, Spock tests his freed jaw but doesn’t say anything. He’s still while Jim works, like a show horse being undressed. 

When his ankles are free, they stay in the air, knees lowering to the bed. His wrists fall to his sides, fingers spreading over the blanket, steadying. Jim pulls loose a few more ribbons before nudging Spock onto his side and untangling the rest—a few are knotted in the front, leaving greenish patches on Spock’s skin where they pressed into him too hard. Spock never once takes his eyes off Jim, dark eyes sheer intensity. The rest of his face is an attempt to be level, but those eyes betray him. He falls back on his stomach when Jim’s done, and he rests his head on the mattress. 

“Let’s get this clear,” Jim says. He rakes a hand through his hair nervously, unsure how to phrase everything. “But I bought your freedom, not you. So you don’t have to stay with me.” Spock’s brow arches; Jim stays firm. 

Spock’s _beautiful_ and naked in his bed, stretched out like that, taut ass slightly raised and just begging Jim to touch it. Jim’s sure the desperation to _touch_ and _kiss_ and _feel_ is plain on his face, but he tries to keep it in check. Tries to be as even as Spock is. “I don’t know if you have any family on Earth or Vulcan, but we can take you to whichever home you like.”

“You are my home,” Spock says bluntly and so definitively that it makes Jim’s stomach twist. “If you did not feel that, you would not have purchased me.”

“I bought your freedom.” Never mind that he wanted, wants more. Spock doesn’t listen.

“Will you have me, then?”

Jim blinks.

Spock slowly sits up, his body arching in a practiced sort of way, too sensual and eye-catching, folding his legs beneath him, knees brushing Jim’s. He doesn’t make any effort to cover himself. “You wanted me if I had myself to give under the terms you expected. Now I do, and I want to give myself to you. Will you have me?”

This... isn’t going how he expected. Jim looks to the side, because he can’t clear his head with Spock in his vision, Spock who draws him in and seems to _want him_ just as much as he wants Spock, as much as he did planetside, but Jim’s not not sure he’s still buying it. “You’ve been bound to a different set of rules a long time.” Or so he assumes; he needs to ask, he remembers belatedly. “You need time to adjust before you go making grand statements. There’s nothing like this in the Federation; you can’t be _mine_.”

“You mistake me.” Jim has to look back; Spock is frowning. “If you will not have me as your servant, I will offer myself as whatever you will have. What your Federation mandates has no bearing on my desires and, if it is as ‘free’ as you claim, it should have no bearing on yours.”

Jim’s... left to just sort of stupidly staring again. He licks his lips, wondering how to explain this. Or how to deal with what Spock said—it’s true. It’s still hard to believe Spock can want him that desperately. He’s a starship captain and he’s just absconded with an alien from what seemed like an all-encompassing ownership contract—it’s so much more conceivable that Spock is trying to solidify his place here. Jim doesn’t believe that either. 

Jim feels like a mess. 

“You are being unreasonable.”

Jim looks up and almost laughs. Now he’s being scolded by that former-servant. Such a mess.

“You said you wanted me if I could return that want without any complications. I do.”

“You couldn’t possibly—”

“I can, and I do. I am Vulcan. I know my mate.”

“I know,” Jim mumbles, and he does remember that, so vividly, the way he first accepted it, the way they melded together and it felt so _right_ , but that doesn’t mean—

“I knew you were the one from the moment I saw you. I am not Vulcan, and I am not for a Vulcan mate, but the need for that connection remains in me. The rest was of little consequence until that emptiness was filled. I spent many years looking for that connection and being exposed to a wealth of aliens but never finding it. You only intensified that belief from the way you looked at me, the way you were with me, and the way it felt when we joined. I was the one that requested to be yours after the banquet. I sought you out, Captain. You have sought me, now. Unless you truly do not want me, there is no reason I should not be yours.”

Jim... didn’t know that. And he wishes Spock had said that earlier. So Spock did choose him, in a way. Jim grasps at straws in his head, trying to find the last semblance of reasons this can’t work. 

He doesn’t find any. Not real ones, anyway. Not that can stand up to his _want._

When he looks at Spock, Spock seems to be searching his face. Jim mumbles, “We have a lot to learn about each other.” Spock inclines his head in agreement. Jim nods too, and his hand reaches out, hovers midair, ghosting over Spock’s leg. He drops that hand. Feeling Spock makes him shudder. “We have to figure out your future. It has to be more than just me.”

Jim expects Spock to argue, but he doesn’t. His hand falls over Jim’s, and Jim’s fingers shift along Spock’s skin, drifting over his inner thigh. 

“For now?”

Jim sighs. Then nods. “For now... you can have me.” He’s careful with how he words it, and he doesn’t miss the fire in Spock’s eyes from his choice. Spock leans in closer; Jim thinks he’s going to be kissed. He wants to be. He leans back, head tilting, body shifting more to face Spock.

But Spock’s just whispering, “I can show you, Jim. I can show you everything I am, learn everything you are, and I can convey why I want you so much.” Jim doesn’t understand. Spock kisses his cheek, soft and quick. 

Jim can’t take it anymore; he follows on instinct and presses them back together, grabs Spock’s other hand in his and nearly pushes Spock down to the bed with the force of his kiss. Spock parts for him easily, and Jim’s tongue slips inside, ready to explore. He remembers everything. Spock tastes better than he remembers. He kisses Spock over and over, until he’s run out of air and he’s been going too fervently to breathe right. Spock tries to follow him, kisses him back. Jim has to push him back. 

“Computer, lights, thirty percent.” Because he loves seeing Spock’s perfect body, but he’s retiring right now. The lights dip low; it takes his eyes a second to adjust. Dim, orange. He turns to crawl to the head of the bed, knowing Spock will follow. Then he sits down and remembers all his clothes, and he tugs off his shoes. 

Spock climbs right over him, right up between his legs, and rips his shirt right over his head. Spock helps pull the undershirt with it. 

Jim can’t help but laugh, “We have to be about more than sex, though. Whatever you hear, that’s not me.”

“We will be,” Spock says with complete confidence, now working on Jim’s pants. He doesn’t say what else they’ll be, so Jim’s left to assume that ‘mates’ means _everything_. Jim has to lift up to tug off his pants, and Spock helps, pulling his boxers with them. Spock even strips his socks off when there’s nothing else left. 

Jim’s left in nothing, just the same as Spock is, and he spends that first few seconds just looking. Spock’s looking at him too. They’re both breathing hard, maybe from kissing or anticipation. Spock’s handling it better than Jim is. Jim sees every centimeter of Spock’s body, and he knows he made the right decision. If he’d left alone, he would’ve regretted leaving Spock for the rest of his life. He’d never be able to be with anyone else without thinking of _Spock_. 

Spock makes a fierce growling sound and lunges forward, sealing their mouths back together. It’s so hard and needy that Jim’s pushed down to his elbows. He needs his hands to touch Spock. He wraps his arms around Spock’s neck and pulls Spock down, and he falls into the bed himself, body over the smoothed blankets and head in the pillow. They’re going at it from every which angle, and then Spock stops and turns his head enough to speak, enough for a break from Jim’s searching lips. 

“I will worship every millimeter of your body,” Spock promises, breathy and intense. He kisses Jim’s cheek and practically moans, “But another time. For now, I must have you...” Jim nods; he was thinking the same thing. 

When Spock ducks down to kiss him again, it rubs their whole bodies together, Spock’s chest sliding along his and Spock’s crotch grinding into his own. Jim’s legs spread on instinct. He tries to wrap them around Spock’s body, but Spock pushes them down and pulls up again, this time with Jim trying to follow. Spock looks over his shoulder, looking at what, Jim doesn’t know. But Spock shifts his legs so that he’s sitting on Jim properly, and he scoots forward, and he reaches behind himself to grab Jim’s cock. It’s already half hard, and Jim moans more with the touch. He stiffens in Spock’s fingers shamefully fast. Spock pushes his ass back into it, and he holds Jim’s cock into his crack, rubbing his cheeks around it. Jim swears under his breath, bucking up without meaning too, but Spock’s thankfully too heavy to displace. He keeps grinding himself back against Jim while Jim gets harder and harder and pulls at Spock’s shoulders, wanting him back down. Spock doesn’t budge. 

Jim surges up on his elbows, pressing his tongue flat into Spock’s chest. If he can’t have Spock’s mouth, he’ll have this. He licks right over to one of Spock’s nipples, and he sucks it into his mouth, rolling it around with his tongue. It pebbles just like a human’s would, and Spock moans above him, grinding harder back into Jim. A few lingering sucks and kisses, and Jim licks his way over to give the other nipple the same treatment. Spock groans, “Almost...”

Jim pops off to ask a husky, “Almost?” Something slick hits his stomach—he leans back to see more natural lube leaking out of Spock’s tip, another bead falling down to Jim. A moment later, something similar slips along the side of his shaft, and Jim’s mouth falls open, cock twitching just at the thought of it. “You get wet back there too?”

Spock nods. His cheeks are staining slightly green, and his eyelids look heavy, but he keeps swinging his hips back into Jim. His ass is so soft and firm around Jim, cheeks almost trying to swallow him. Jim can’t help himself—he reaches around Spock’s body to grab two chunks of ass, and he tries to squish Spock’s cheeks tighter around himself, enough to thrust up and down into it. Spock grunts but doesn’t protest. More liquid is gathering around Jim’s cock, is gathering around Spock’s, looking so much like cum and wetting both of them. Jim tries to push one hand further down Spock’s ass, but Spock catches his wrist and mutters, “Not yet.”

“I have to prepare you,” Jim insists. “I can’t take this much longer, I want to fuck you as soon as I can.” That must be where this is headed, why Spock is so keen on making Jim hard and himself wet. But Spock shakes his head. 

“No, I... my body will prepare itself for you...” He bends down to kiss Jim hard, reassuring, stifling Jim’s groan of delight. The hand that isn’t holding them together cups Jim’s face, and Jim can’t get enough. Squishing them together like this slicks up his stomach with Spock’s precum, and it’s starting to run all down his cock, pooling at his base. He bucks up once, unable to stop himself, and Spock takes that as a signal to let go. He sits back up, one hand on Jim’s stomach to hold him down, and he lifts up, hovering over Jim’s hips. 

He holds Jim’s cock in position, and Jim has a moment to just admire the splendor before him. Spock’s completely naked and glistening with the prequel to sweat, wet in the front and wet in the back, a stream of cum already soaking his inner thighs. He looks pre-debauched, built solely for sex. Like he really was made to just be Jim’s bed-warmer. Jim almost wonders why he didn’t notice this last time, but then he remembers that it was late and he was too busy getting fucked to do much thinking. Now, all he can do is stare at the way Spock spreads his own hole with two fingers, more cum oozing out of it. Jim wishes it really were his cum. He wants to mark Spock irreparably. He wants to be inside Spock desperately, and he looks up, saying with his eyes that he’s ready. 

Spock sits down all at once, Jim’s cock shooting straight into him. Jim screams instantly. Spock sinks about halfway on before starting to bounce, apparently determined to be fully impaled as fast as possible. His bouncing makes Jim dizzy with the pleasure; the pressure around his cock is already mind-blowing. Spock’s _so_ tight. Spock purrs, “ _Jim_ ,” and sinks even lower, gasping and pushing down. He gets to the base in no time; Jim’s already seeing stars.

Jim’s in heaven. If heaven has soul-mate servants. Jim means to take a minute to breathe, but instead his hands are jumping to rest on Spock’s hips, to run up Spock’s sides, to touch every part of Spock’s body. Spock leans forward, his palms flat on Jim’s chest. His ass is moist and burning hot, slick and velvety. His cock bobs in front of him, hard and dripping. It feels too right to be joined this way. Jim can’t care that it’ll make this over too fast—he grabs Spock’s dick and immediately starts to pump it. No wonder Spock gave up everything to search for this. Spock moans in appreciation, and Spock rocks his hips. 

Spock hisses, “ _Yes_ ,” under his breath and repeats it several times. He lifts up on his own, pushing on Jim’s stomach, but Jim doesn’t care. Spock’s thighs tense and tremble while he pulls his whole weight off and slams it down again. Gravity does half the work. Jim’s touching but not helping—he toys with Spock’s hard nipples and jerks at Spock’s dick, and when Spock drops down again, Jim puts his hand there. He runs his fingers through the mass of black hair and strokes around Spock’s hole, fingering the brim, spread wide and puffing up around Jim’s cock. It’s so good. If he were sitting up, his head would be lolling back. He wants to fuck Spock with everything he has. 

Spock does it for him. Up and down, Spock moves like he was born to be a part of Jim. He fucks himself hard, moving rhythmically and never stopping, rolling his hips just a little each time and staring down at Jim’s face; there’s eye contact that neither of them can seem to break. Even Spock’s breath grows laboured. Jim lets him do all the work. Jim’s fingers tighten in his hips, willing himself not to hump back, let Spock have it. Spock’s face is twisted with pleasure: the picture of beauty. 

And then Jim just can’t take it, and he grabs Spock’s waist as hard as he can. He rolls them over suddenly, still held together, careful about the angle, and he slams Spock’s back down into the bed. Spock’s legs are spread wide in the air around him; Jim ducks between them and kisses Spock with everything he has. Spock’s arms wrap around Jim’s shoulders. Jim starts doing the work, fucking Spock relentlessly. He holds onto Spock’s waist, then migrates back to Spock’s dick with one hand and his head with the other, threading through his hair and holding him in place for full kisses. Jim wants to fuck Spock with his tongue and his cock at the same time. Spock mewls into him; Spock seems to love it. 

Jim loves it. So much, so good, so fast, so hard. His head’s spinning and his autopilot can’t seem to do anything but kiss and fuck. He’s going to finish soon, he knows it, and he doesn’t want to, but he races there anyway, pumping Spock and trying to drag Spock with him. Spock shoves his chest suddenly, and Jim lifts up a few centimeters, their noses still touching and Jim’s hips still going. 

“May I join us?” Spock breathes, and he doesn’t sound so much desperate as look demanding, like he dares Jim to say anything but yes. Jim doesn’t know what that means exactly, but right now, he can’t care. Anything that gives him more of Spock is all he ever wanted. 

Spock shifts one hand down to Jim’s face, and his fingers and thumb work into a strange configuration, pressing close to his skin. Jim feels like sparks will go flying from them. In the back of his addled head, he thinks he might know what this is—he has some bare-bones knowledge of Vulcans, but he can’t be sure, not now while he’s fucking too hard to think. He doesn’t have to ask. Spock’s looking right at him, and Jim nods. Jim trusts him. 

Jim’s flooded into, right on the next thrust, and the burst of it nearly pushes him over the edge. It roars into his brain and washes out all the lights, blinds Jim and sets him stumbling, takes every corner. _Spock’s_ in his head, he _knows it_ , and he’s accumulating thousands of thoughts and memories and thinly veiled _emotions_ in the breadth of a nanosecond. He’s being taken back. It’s like Spock’s inhaled him all at once. He’s learning _who Spock is_ from scratch, and he falls more and more in love with every scrap he sees. Science—that’s the area Spock started in—his mother’s from Earth—he was on a science vessel when he was taken, not too young, not much younger than they both are now—Orions took him and chained him, but it wasn’t logical to fight what he couldn’t and he learned—he was sold and he served—he felt numb, but he lived, never felt entitled too more—he came to Mrennenimus and was offered a contract, could’ve chosen any, was tired of feeling alone and _needed connection_ , wanted the bond that all the pure-Vulcans had, that he hadn’t, wasn’t betrothed when he was young like them and didn’t realize until now that he was older and needed it that there was still that empty place in his mind—he did small things at first, but opened to more, grew completely neutral to it all but still had some thin veil of _hope_ that sooner or later, he’d feel again, even though those feelings were always something to keep veiled—he was unaffected, he fit here, nothing on this strange world made him emotional and he was finally _Vulcan_ with one small hole—he felt a twinge of something in the back of his neck and saw the visitors in the halls. He was summoned to the banquet. He saw Jim across the room and didn’t understand. There was a girl once, back Vulcan before it all went wrong, he could’ve been betrothed to, but she never wanted him. He never wanted her. He looked at the strangers and didn’t understand. 

He saw what they could have, what they could’ve been, and Jim sees it too, like a lifetime of something so powerful they could share together, that he’s sure they’re meant to have. Spock’s so _sure_ of it, and through his head, Jim is too. Jim’s struggling to breathe through the influx of everything. He’s not quite sure what Spock got of him. He could probably know if he tried. He doesn’t. 

He’s busy sinking back into himself, the channel still open, _Spock_ in the back of his mind. His hips only stilled for a fraction of a second. He doesn’t let it happen again. He wants Spock so fiercely, so much that he can hardly stand it, that he can’t explain. He kisses Spock with everything he has. 

He lets Spock’s hand stay on his face, lets Spock pump in residuals, filling Jim up inside like Jim’s going to fill him: a different kind of everything. The bond between them is strong, a constant tether that Jim suddenly can’t fathom how he ever lived without. He alternates between having his forehead against Spock’s and his tongue in Spock’s mouth. 

He squeezes Spock’s dick, and to his shock, Spock comes first. Spock screams into his mouth and arches up into him, clutching desperately to him and bursting between them. A new spray of cum splashes both of their chests, paints their chins, and Jim, still fucking Spock dry, keeps pumping Spock in time with his thrusts. He ducks his head and cleans up what he can with his tongue, not surprised that he enjoys it too much. He licks a large gob off Spock’s chin and kisses away Spock’s moan, purring, “You’re _wonderful_.”

Spock’s ass is twitching. He squeezes it harder, clamps down around Jim, and Jim groans loudly as his resolve crumbles. He can’t take it anymore. He explodes deep inside Spock. He can feel Spock growing with it, feel the way it sloshes inside Spock, trapped there while he comes more and more. Spock’s legs are locked around him so tightly. They kiss it all out, right up until their lips are chapped and their bodies are bent and they just have to stop.

They slump in their own way, but Jim’s on top and has no intention of moving. He stays where he is, stays buried inside, and he groans, “That was... amazing.”

Spock nods against him. He can feel it.

Jim finally lets go, and he runs his hand over Spock’s body, up to Spock’s shoulder, down Spock’s arm to lock their fingers together. He pets the back of Spock’s head with the other. He feels like there are still residual sparks rippling all throughout him, tremours from the sex and bits of Spock in his brain.

“Do you believe me now?” Spock asks, and Jim somehow knows what for.

“Yeah.” Mates still seems an odd concept, but if that’s what Spock wants to call it then fair enough; they’re definitely _something_. 

Jim forces himself to lift up and pull himself out of Spock, mainly so he doesn’t crush the air out of Spock’s lungs. There’s an uncomfortable grunt below him, but he knows it’s just from being empty. He understands; he feels that way too. He lies down next to Spock on the bed, pulling up the pillow so they can share it, their heads both falling down towards the middle, closer together. Jim rests his forehead against Spock while he pushes down the thick duvet beneath them, then pulls it up and over them. He doesn’t want to turn the lights off. He doesn’t think he’ll grow tired of looking at Spock for a long, long time, if ever. 

For a moment, Spock seems content to do the same. Panting and coming down, warm and sweaty and sticky, they lie facing one another. 

Eventually, Jim asks, “You were on a science vessel?”

Spock says simply, “Yes.”

“I could use another science officer.” Always could. Spock lifts an eyebrow, and Jim clarifies, “Now that you’re not just serving pleasure anymore, I want you to have something to do.” 

“And I cannot simply be for your pleasure.”

Jim can’t help but laugh once. “No, you can’t.” He puts his hand on Spock’s arm beneath the blanket, and Spock glances down at it. “You know how I feel about you, but it’s because I care about you so much that I want you to be something you actually want, not something you’re just use to chasing.”

“In addition to yours,” Spock concludes. He has such a perfect poker face. It feels almost like they’re negotiating terms. Jim grins. 

“In addition to being my lover.”

Spock seems to think for a moment, then inclines his head. “I believe that may be an adequate compromise.”

Jim leans in for a kiss, can’t help it. He lingers a bit too long, even though he’s tired and Spock’s hot to the touch. Spock tastes less sugary than he did on Mrenneniums II, but Jim thinks he likes that. He kisses Spock again and orders the lights off.

Through the darkness, he sighs, “Good night, Spock.”

Spock answers, “Good night, _t’hy’la_ ,” and rolls promptly onto his other side. Jim can feel both the movement and translation through a bond that won’t seem to go away, and he’s smiling so hard that he’s glad of the darkness; he must look like an idiot. 

He sidles up to Spock’s back and wraps his arms around Spock’s body, pulling Spock in tight. Spock doesn’t protest. He puts his chin over Spock’s shoulder and wonders how he ever resisted so long. 

He’ll need a report when he next goes on duty. He’ll worry about it later.

The reality is that Spock’s his now, and Jim’s never giving him back.


End file.
